


i would never break your heart (i would only re-arrange)

by TooManyGaysTooLittleTime



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: 5+1 Things, BAMF Asha Greyjoy, BAMF Women, Crack Relationships, Even Author Does Not Understand This, F/F, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I know this format is overused but I do what I want, I'm Sorry, Minor canon divergence, POV Mya Stone (ASoIaF), To Be Edited, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, asha is a fucking badass here, mya less so but she still kicks ass, one day...., pretty much unedited, there is smut... eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:13:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25314376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime/pseuds/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime
Summary: Five times that Asha saved Mya, and one time that Mya saved Asha.
Relationships: Asha Greyjoy/Mya Stone
Kudos: 5





	i would never break your heart (i would only re-arrange)

**Author's Note:**

> look it me back with a ship that literally nobody ships and an overused fic template!
> 
> title from [rearrange by biffy clyro](https://open.spotify.com/track/6iv3Fclf4l11hQGYs8KbGc?si=t6zMteAKSPCNPNd-mNZFQQ)

**i.**

Mya is twenty when she first leaves the Vale, sneaking out under cover of darkness. The steps of the bridge seem more slippery and it feels more dangerous than before as she works her way down the series of towers, and the dark shapes of the mountains rising up around her seem like watchful gods, seeing and judging her.

She had to leave Whitey behind, and his absence is felt in pangs of faint sickness, or fear, looking down at the Vale laid out below her in the darkness. The wind isn’t particularly strong as she descends the mountain, for which Mya supposes she should be grateful for, but at the moment she cannot find it in herself to be grateful about anything. Bitterness fills her instead: bitterness circling around the young lord Robert, the viper of a Lord Protector currently installed in Sky, and the way he had mistreated Alayne. 

She had wanted to take Alayne with her, as well, but she had insisted on staying, those soft blue eyes boring into Mya’s with a fearsome strength. Mya dislikes having to leave her, but she would never have the guts to go against another’s will. 

Picking her way towards the bottom of the Vale’s many layers of defenses, a fleeting piece of doubt at how easy the entire escape was falls upon her. She shakes her head, trying to clear any second-guesses, and she slips through the opened portcullis, her gaze lifting to the towers above her one last time.

Noiselessly, she pads through the castle, sticking against the walls like snow being packed together by pale, freckled hands. The second portcullis requires the chain to be wound up and lift the gate, a task Mya has performed several times in the past, although never without another person. She grips the winch and begins to turn it, struggling the most initially before it becomes slightly easier upon her shoulders and arms. Squeaks resound from the metal, and Mya grimaces, hoping that the noises go unremarked. Once the portcullis has lifted enough for her to manage to duck through it, she lets go of the winch and runs to it, holding the metal above her head as she squats down to crawl beneath it. Dropping the gate with a thump, Mya looks out across the Vale spread out in front of her. The land is full of sparse patches of green, faintly illuminated in the beginning of dawn light, and light brown soil covering the rest of it.

Exhaustion from her lack of sleep and the strenuous physical activity coats her in tiredness, but she perseveres, hardy boots continuing slowly along the high road.

Around midday, she slows her pace further, legs sinking into the ground as she sits by the side of the high road. Despite how much she had tried to breathe and pace herself, her legs still hurt with a thrumming pain. 

Mya unhooks her waterskin from her belt and takes a long swig, water spilling over her lips as she tries to drink more than she can swallow down. Her face is wet and moist, and she uses the back of her dirtied hand to wipe it into dryness.

“What are ye doing all alone, boy?” Mya hears a man’s gruff voice say from nearby. She nearly drops the waterskin, managing to catch it before any splashes out and seal it again.

“Runnin’ from the Eyrie,” she calls back in answer, grateful that her short hair and tunic and leggings have enabled her to pass as a man. There are tales of women being raped and killed by the savages on the high road, which Mya had heard from highborn mouths since she was old enough to understand words.

“Aye, well, yer not going to survive for long if ye don’t have any provisions.” A man comes into view, skinny and long-legged, the sort that the other highborn girls back in the Vale might chuckle at, but would, in fact, be indispensable as a servant. Furs coat his chest and legs, leaving his head and long grey hair uncovered. 

“I have plenty provisions,” Mya replies, reflexively palming the food in the bags at her belt. Her immediate reaction is to frown at him, brow lowering. 

The man leans down, his breath rank near Mya’s face. “Not enough,” he says, noting the lack of any food to pad out the pockets of Mya’s breeches. 

She sighs, brushing back a stray strand of dark hair from her face. He’s correct, naturally, but Mya doesn’t take well to criticism, even if it is well-meaning. “Where do you think I could get more, then?” Her stare is a challenge, provoking and anger-filled.

He backs away slowly. “I meant no harm, boy. Simply makin’ an observation.” She relents and leans against the stone marker at the side of the road, the edges digging into her back sharply.

“Say,” the man starts again, “would ye want to travel with me and mine tribe until ye get to where ye’re going?”

Looking up, Mya examines him again. Despite how skinny he appears due to his height, he is relatively well-muscled and fed, far stockier than the young Lord Robert back in the Eyrie. She finds herself reconsidering her first impressions.

Finally, she decides. “Okay,” she responds, pushing herself up and rubbing off the dirt from the road. She thinks the other man smiles in return, but she can’t tell.

He begins by leading her away from the road, into the tree line. The scent of pine is heavy in the air as they ascend the hill away from the road. “Too easy for ye to be spotted, if ye’re on the road,” he explains. Mya finds the air beginning to thin and she draws in heavy breaths, inhaling the strong pine smell. 

She can’t tell how long they walk for before they reach a pile of coals, blackened and still smoking gently. By this time, her legs are exhausted and complaining through shoots of pain, and she sighs relievedly when he gestures for her to sit. She chooses a thick pine trunk to lean against, head lolling back against the rough bark. 

“We’ll sleep here, if ye’re that tired,” the clansman says, beginning to strike tinder to start the fire. 

“N-no,” Mya struggles to sit up. “Someone needs to keep watch.” 

“Never ye mind about that,” he reassures her. “Sleep, and I shall keep watch over ye until morn.”

Mya lets herself lean back, into the bulk of the tree behind her, and closes her eyes. Although the inside of her vision blackens, she cannot make herself sleep, too concerned with Alayne, whom she had left behind. She doesn’t think she’ll ever forget Alayne’s terrified face as she was hurried into the seat of the Eyrie, and though Lysa, the old hag who had detested her, was dead, she wasn’t sure that Petyr would be better.

Still, tiredness ensures that she drifts off, even with worry occupying her head and the ground digging into her back. When she wakes, however, blinking away the awkward remnants of her sleep, she finds that the clansman is slumped forwards by the fire. He looks to be asleep, but Mya is all too aware of the dangers of the high road. She crawls across the ground, reaching to tap his shoulder and check if he wakes.

When he doesn’t respond, Mya rushes across the ground, nearly skinning her knees through her trousers, and presses two fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse.

There is no characteristic thrum of a heart pushing blood through his veins. Mya feels acute danger in the air all around her. 

She stands up on unsteady feet, reaching for the dagger in her boot. This high up, the air seems to rush around her, destabilising her and throwing her off guard.

“Come on and fight me, cowards!” Mya cries, sounding more courageous than she feels. She slices her dagger through the air in a threat.

An arrow whistles by her ear, and she ducks before it can pierce her eye. It grazes the top of her head, the fletching nearly catching. Mya whirls and begins climbing the slope where the arrow had come from, trying to reach the shooter and—kill him, if she had to. 

Arrows begin riddling the cliff as she climbs, piercing the rock by her side. She loses breath from the danger of the situation, her breathing becoming quicker and more panicked. An arrow hits the cliff above her head, and Mya grimaces as rocks fall upon her, small ones first in the main that are followed by larger ones. 

Oh, shit. Her head begins to hurt from the persistent feeling of rocks upon it. Her hands loosen their grip on the cliff face and, while her legs scramble relentlessly, they don’t stop her fall, jagged rock brushing up against her body. Air rushes around her as she falls, and she begins screaming, for no apparent reason: there is no way anyone will hear her and stop her fall.

She closes her eyes, preparing her last words—

Arms are suddenly around her, supporting her before she hits the ground. Mya cracks her dirty lids open, and through her lashes she sees a concerned face looking down at her. Brown skin, dark short hair, gray and stormy eyes.

Mya sighs heavily, body sagging into the support of their arms as she hears orders for a stretcher to be made called out. She is jostled into salty-smelling clothes, head lolling onto the chest of the person holding her. Her body is laid down upon cloth, and a hand reaches for her brow, wiping liquid away that Mya had not known was there.

“Who,” Mya swallows before retrying, “who are you?”

A dark look passes over her rescuer’s eyes. “Nobody of consequence.”

Mya doesn’t pry as a wet cloth is pressed against her forehead. The person is quiet before asking, “Where are you headed?” 

Coughing, Mya leans further back into the stretcher, allowing her body to relax. “Away from the Vale... get help...”

The person—a woman, Mya thinks, judging by her build and the kindness in her eyes so untypical of men—nods. “We’re headed that a way too. We’ll take you there.” She urges Mya to open her lips and pours a liquid tasting vaguely of herbs into her mouth, which Mya swallows with only minor difficulty. “Rest, now.”

**ii.**

Mya next comes upon the gang of ironborn when the ship she’s upon runs aground near Old Wyk. Her hair, which has begun to lengthen and tangle messily, is hidden under a cap, a cloth band wrapping around her forehead and the crown of her head. 

She had been planning to set sail for Essos after hearing about the Dragon Queen there, hoping to gain an audience with her and petition for Baelish to be deposed as Lord Protector of the Vale: while normal assaults failed, she was sure that the dragons that she had heard the queen held would be fully able to take it. Although she had run away, she still thought of Alayne’s situation frequently, and worried for her.

Unfortunately, that plan had failed when the captain—a drunkard and a fool if she’d ever seen one, who had only allowed Mya on his ship after she had disguised herself as a man—had reached for the wheel in a drunk haze and turned it so they approached the sandbank. While the first mate and others including her had attempted to stay the course, they had been unable to prevent its eventual ruin upon the sands.

The captain hollers insults at the lot of them, drink making him confident. Mya wishes that she were able to stand up to him meaningfully, rather than simply cry denials back. Her knife is in her boot, begging to be used, as is the blade at her hip, but she doubts she could get away with it. Even if he would deserve it for mistreating his crew—when Mya had crept into the first mate’s cabin to roll with him under the sheets, the fucking leaving her unsatisfied somehow, she had run her fingers over scars from whippings. He had pushed her hands away, clearly despising the memories, but Mya still remembered them.

For now, however, they are run aground, and it would be of no use to kill him, yet. The ship lies on its side, sand spilling onto its hull and mast as its bulk slowly sinks deeper. Mya doesn’t think it will be salvaged if they continue arguing.

She attempts to heave at a lifeboat trapped on the side and pull it out, but her strength cannot match up to the pressure the ship is exerting on it, and, sweating, she gives the effort up. Slumping down on the sands, she presses a hand to her brow and sighs.

For a while they stay there, the ship slowly sinking into the sand and the passengers becoming more and more angry. Mya lifts her head to join in once again, but her eye is caught by a ship banking the corner.

“Help! Help!” she begins to cry, waving at the ship. The passengers notice her cries and join in, the noise ear-splitting. 

The ship—black hulled and flying a Greyjoy kraken—almost seems to turn away, but—thank all the gods—it progresses steadily towards them, bringing with it the promise of rescue. Its pace slows as it approaches and brings itself into alignment with the sandbank. 

Cries coming from the deck above them inform the passengers, through their inference of the sailors’ language, that a lifeboat is being lowered for them. Sure enough, the small boat hits the sand, and Mya along with everyone else rushes to sit in it. She holds onto the gently swaying side as it is pulled up, the slow crawl of the winch torturous.

It bumps up against the top of the ship, and Mya stands up abruptly as it swings towards the deck, taking the opportunity to jump onto the deck. She lands in a kneeling position, and her eyes catch on the captain of the ship at the wheel.

Short black hair peeks out from beneath a common Ironborn cap, and brown, tattooed hands skate across the wheel. Mya damn near trips herself up as she runs up the stairs leading to the poop deck, alight with curiosity.

The captain turns, stormy grey eyes catching Mya’s. She gives no sign that she’s met Mya before, outwardly, but her private smile as her hand falls into Mya’s awaiting one is enough.

“Asha Greyjoy,” she says, broad and confident. “And this is the Black Wind.”

“Thank you for rescuing us,” Mya replies, not taking her eyes off Asha’s.

**iii.**

“I swear, you have no talent for seafaring,” Asha frowns, looking at the small boat that Mya is currently seated in with suspicious eyes. Panting, she pulls harder at the oars, attempting to make it to the nearest shore.

A rope is thrown down from the larger ship, and Mya clings onto it relievedly, both hands wrapping around the rope.

“No, don’t let go of your oars,” Asha scolds, and with cheeks flaming Mya pulls up the oars which had begun to slide and settles them in the base of the boat.

“Good. Hold on,” Asha says, and Mya obliges as she starts to feel a tug from the other end. Mya gets a good view of the muscles in the other woman’s arms working as she pulls at the rope, the lean figure she cuts deceiving to the strength that Mya is feeling.

Asha extends a hand as Mya’s boat comes adjacent to her, and letting go of the rope with one hand, Mya takes it. She grips onto the rope so hard that her knuckles whiten as Asha continues pulling one-handedly, calling over her shoulder “Qarl, help me out over here!”

The boat tips sideways and onto the deck, and Mya nearly vomits onto the wood. “Up,” Asha says, her voice and manner gentle as she supports Mya and helps her to stand.

Mya leans into her, the tang of salt and fish overpowering as Asha leads her down the deck and towards the captain’s quarters, calling over her shoulder for her crew to repair the boat.

Once inside the captain’s quarters, Mya is settled onto the bunk, the sheets below her worn and comforting. Asha goes to light a candle, clearing the fug of smoke and darkness from the cabin.

As Asha turns, Mya notices that the ruthless ironborn pirate she has gotten to know so well is completely absent: her expression is worried, caring. 

“Why- why did you save me?” Mya asks through a shiver.

The other woman shrugs, blowing out the taper and replacing it beside the candle. “Call it professional interest.” 

“Why,” Mya asks again as she begins to strip the wet clothing from herself, fully aware that the bedcovers beneath are soaking by now.

Asha is glib as she replies, “Got to help a sailor in need.”

“Come off it. I’m no sailor,” Mya says, pulling away her outer tunic to leave her in a thin and wet shirt. Her nipples peak at the cold air, and as she looks up she notices Asha staring.

Perhaps the interest is not merely professional, then. Mya smiles broadly as she begins to remove the shirt, watching Asha’s mouth go slack.

“Your name, I don’t know it—” Asha starts once she notices Mya looking back at her, and Mya is enjoying flustering the other woman for once. 

“Stone,” Mya replies easily. She slides off her boots, letting them fall to the floor.

“I mean, your first name—” 

From outside, there is a banging of fists on the door, and a distorted yell. Asha sighs heavily, the guise of pirate slipping back on before Mya’s eyes. 

“I had better see what they want,” she says, turning away and not quite meeting Mya’s gaze. 

After Asha leaves, Mya takes off the rest of her clothes, leaving her only in her thin cloth underthings. They are thin and damp against her skin, and she holds the fabric out near the taper to warm it up. She yawns, the rush of warmth from the heated cloth against her body and the muggy atmosphere of the room encouraging her to feel the exhaustion that is deep in her bones.

**iv.**

“Slow,” Mya stretches her hands out in front of the wolf, trying to keep it away. “Yes, just like that. You don’t want to hurt me... _nice_ wolf, _good_ wolf.” She pants heavily, relievedly, as it backs away, its eyes still glowing maliciously.

It’s larger than any wolf Mya has ever seen, dwarfing her in height and bulk. She has a dagger strapped to her thigh, stolen from a particularly sleazy roadside bandit who had attempted to fuck her, and a second in her boot that she’d taken when she’d left the Vale. Looking at its long claws and teeth, however, Mya doubts that her daggers will be of much use against it. She continues to back away, muttering epithets that she means to be soothing. It seems to be working, as the wolf does not pounce on her from its place on the lip of the ground where it rides up. 

Her efforts, however, are hindered when she notices a dark figure out of the corner of her eye. She sees the glint of light upon a blade, and hears the impact of booted feet upon the twig-ridden forest floor. The blade is lifted by a brown hand and she realises almost too late what the person means to do.

“ _No!_ ” she cries, the sound breaking out of her mouth high-pitched and fearful. In response, the wolf growls threateningly, and begins to advance towards Mya.

She draws her blade from its sheath upon her thigh, holding it out in front of her as a challenge. Her hand shakes as she does so, but her resolve stays firm, back foot planted upon the ground rather than lifted and ready to run. She stands side-on, the knife in her boot digging into her ankle uncomfortably.

The wolf prepares to leap, its limbs stiffening as it bounds across the ground. Mya stares into its eyes, willing herself to stand steady.

It throws itself towards her, front paws outstretched and claws out. She swallows a rushed gulp at the length of them, gripping tighter to her dagger.

“ _Throw it!_ ” She hears from the forest, a command that makes her arm unfreeze and her grip loosen to throw it. Her aim is slightly off, and it hits just below the wolf’s eye, sinking into its cheek. The wolf lets out a pained howl, and Mya loses her composure as other howls start to ricochet around the forest.

“Run,” a voice from behind her hisses, interlinking their arms to pull her out of the clearing. She scrambles up the dip, infinitely grateful for the steadying presence behind her.

Her legs pound across the forest of their own volition, fear driving her to run faster and faster, accumulating speed until she is tripping over her own feet.

The person in front of her slows as the woods around them begin to thin, and Mya rushes her stop, nearly falling over as she pants heavily.

“Breathe,” she feels a presence beside her, holding her up against them. She looks at the ground and focuses on taking one breath in after another. Eventually, she starts to feel better, and stands up, legs wobbling but still steady.

Mya glances up at her saviour. It takes a moment, but the features click. “You’re... Asha! Asha Greyjoy! But what are you doing here?” she gasps.

Asha’s lip twists in the darkness. “Never you worry about that. Only be grateful that I saved you.”

“Again,” Mya huffs, and would have laughed were the situation different. She stares into Asha’s eyes, hoping to convey her gratitude. “Thank you. I mean it. For everything.”

“Anytime.” Asha replies. “We’ll rest here awhile, then I’ll let you on your way in the morn.”

“Okay,” Mya says, even though she wishes that Asha would stay longer. 

**v.**

The ironborn are overridden, that much is clear: from her vantage point perched on the lower branches of the tree, she can see that they are surrounded by foot soldiers, a small amount of cavalry creating a second concentric ring around them. Mya takes in a horrified gulp of air when one of the foot soldiers runs into a lance, which pierces through his breastplate and into flesh. He falls to the ground, dead.

“Give it up, Greyjoy!” 

“Never!” The leader of the fighters roars. Mya thinks she recognises her—brown skin, black hair cut short. Even in the darkness, Asha Greyjoy cuts a fearsome figure. Her axe is whirling in one hand, the edges dark with blood. She has killed this night, and will surely do so again. 

Fear rises into her heart for the other woman. She is outnumbered, and cannot possibly break free from the men and cavalry surrounding her without dying or being captured by her enemy: neither are outcomes which Mya wishes to happen. However, she cannot save Asha with the single dagger in her boot. 

Perhaps, however, she can do something else. Mya prepares to jump, tensing her body and getting ready to bend her knees once she lands.

Throwing herself forwards and off the tree, she sees the forest floor approaching to meet her. She forgets to bend her knees, what with the apprehension lodged deep in her throat, and ends up falling face first into the dirt. As she lifts her dirtied head up out of the soil and twigs, she notices the exchange is paused. 

“Oh—”

“What the fuck—”

Mya can recognise Asha’s voice anywhere by now, even blunted by fear. She scrambles up, pulling her dagger out of her boot. Moving quickly, she presses the blade to the bared throat of one of the soldiers, who she assumes is the commander. “Let them go,” she says, voice and hand steady and threatening. 

The man intakes a shuddering breath. “W-who are you...”

Mya digs the blade in further. “ _Now_.”

Asha’s smile promises blood as she lifts her axe. “What she said.” With a single slice, she cuts off the heαd of the soldier standing next to Mya, and when he falls Mya notices the sword that had been poised at her neck. She gulps briefly, digging the blade further into the skin.

Asha grins like a berserker and unleashes herself upon them.

**\+ i.**

“You... saved me,” Asha says, incredulously. Her eyes are wide, and she wears an impressed expression on her face.

Mya smiles sadly in return. “Yeah, I guess I did.” She wipes a cloth over the flat of the axe, fingers finding their way around the various studs and leather straps connecting the axe head to the handle. The metal is scratched and blunted from going without sharpening, and she sets it down with a promise to find a whetstone for it soon.

Soon, because currently Asha is the greatest focus of her attentions. Sitting down next to the bed where Asha lays, she runs a hand over the bandaged arm. Blood has soaked through the cloth and become brown with time, and when Asha shifts her position, a fleeting grimace runs across her face.

Worry fills her, and Mya presses a hand to Asha’s shoulder, gently forcing her back down. Asha grunts, but does not complain or resist. 

She turns away from Asha for a moment, reaching for a herbal liquid to give to Asha that would cause pleasant and restful sleep. Retrieving a small bottle, she uncorks it and moves to pour it into Asha’s mouth before she is stopped by a hand on her wrist.

Asha looks addled from the medicines, her eyes bleary. “ _There_ you are,” she whispers, smiling despite the situation. 

“I’m here,” Mya responds quietly.

“No, I mean-” Asha scrunches up her brow in search of an explanation. “It’s you and not someone else. You’ve lost- you’ve dropped your guard.”

Immediately, Mya is startled into a frown, automatically turning away so Asha doesn’t see. A hand comes up to cup her cheek, firm and insistent.

“I was wondering when I’d see you,” Asha says, smiling broadly now, “you’d been hiding who you really were for some time now. What’s your name?”

Mya leans into the touch, eyes flickering closed. “Mya.”

Asha lets out a throaty noise of approval. “Kiss me now, Mya, or I think I’ll lose you with the next day.”

Surprised at Asha’s boldness, Mya still finds herself leaning towards where she thinks Asha’s mouth is. She doesn’t quite manage to kiss her properly, the first time she tries it, finding Asha’s chin instead, but Asha takes her chin in one hand and rights her course the next time she does so.

Asha’s tongue slips between her lips, hungry like an animal who hasn’t been sated for years, and deepens the kiss until it is no longer sunlight upon the sea, but dark like the depths of the sea that fishing nets can’t reach.

It shouldn’t be happening, and yet it is. Mya bites Asha’s bottom lip, surprisingly soft for how rough the rest of her is, and leans further into her body, no longer minding the injury.

Asha’s hand is on her thigh, moving upwards to press at her waistband, two fingers hooking underneath and tugging firmly. Mya shifts to allow her to pull her trousers down and off. They get flung away, Asha’s arm clearly weakened but still strong, and Mya gasps inadvertently at the contact of her bare skin with Asha’s hand.

Asha pulls away, concern crossing her face. “You good?”

Mya hesitantly smiles back. “Yeah.” Her hands reach to the waistline of Asha’s shirt, tugging it over her chest and head. A bolt of fabric is across Asha’s chest, binding her breasts down: probably for combat purposes. She tries to figure out how to take it off, sliding her fingers over and underneath the strip of fabric.

Asha deals with it herself, pulling it away and showing the pale skin beneath. The sight of her bare chest sets something in Mya alight, and she leans down to kiss Asha, hard. 

“I can’t believe how fucking long I’ve waited to fuck you,” Asha says, breathless, hands already at Mya’s tunic, pulling it away to bare her skin to the air. She kisses a path up Mya’s stomach as she does so, mouth as wet as the sea.

Mya loses her composure little by little with every press of Asha’s lips to her skin. “Oh _fuck_ , dear _gods_ ,” she hisses, clutching at Asha’s short hair, fingers threading through it firmly. Against her sternum, Asha lets out a throaty rumble of laughter like thunder rolling through the hills and bringing with it rain. 

Asha’s mouth moves further upwards, onto Mya’s breastbone and latching onto her neck. Mya presses her legs harder around Asha’s body, tension thrumming through her body in excitement.

“I just- I only want you right now,” Mya whispers, the words coming out louder than she expected. “No more time wasted.”

Pulling away from her skin, Asha nods in agreement, adding “We’ve wasted enough time already.” 

When her hand moves in between Mya’s legs, she hisses out a gasp, pressing closer to Asha like she is the eye of the storm that is the rest of the world.

She supposes that to her, Asha is the eye of the storm.

Asha seals her lips against Mya’s as her fingers find the inside of Mya, and she sighs into the kiss, hands sliding around Asha as she rides waves of pleasure, throwing her across decks upon a storm-ridden sea, always above the water and never drowning.

“I could die here, happy,” Asha murmurs into Mya’s skin as she comes, pressing tight against Asha as she does so.

Mya manages a smile. “As could I.”

**Author's Note:**

> what even is this lol


End file.
